


Pointless Endeavor

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 18:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18474937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Alexander Nox and Bloodhound are childhood friends, born into an underground world of assassins and hitmen and shady black market businessmen.This is for all the people who wanted me to write more Bloodhound and Caustic interactions.





	Pointless Endeavor

**Author's Note:**

> I'm weak. 
> 
> Bloodhound's name is Atli, just like in my other fanfic because...uh, why not?

_Arms wrapped around their neck, choking the life out of them._

_A boy twice their weight, and four years old than them, squeezes even harder until they begin to see stars._

_"That's enough."_

_The pressure relents, but instead of feeling relieved, all they feel is shame._

_They have disappointed him again._

* * *

Follow the line. 

Account for gravity. 

Allow the thrust to carry through.

A child throws knives at a target, face slick with sweat, tears threatening to spill out of their eyes. 

Aim where something is going to be, not where it is. 

Steady hands.

Breathe.

Don't fuck up.

They focus. 

They use their instincts. 

They suppress all emotions. 

They channel their frustration.

It doesn't work. 

They miss, and miss, over and over again. 

* * *

"...this is the son of our top military strategist, Marina Nox. He's something of a genius. You may train with him. Any other activities are prohibited, unless scholarly in nature." 

His child stares dispassionately as the pale and sullen boy standing beside his tall and hawkish mother. 

"Alexander," the boy says, holding out his hand. 

They do not take it. 

But they bow their head, and murmur, "Atli." 

They sit in their family's library, staring at one another.

Alexander doesn't seem too happy about being here, and they share the sentiment. 

After a long silence, the boy finally speaks: "You're smaller than I thought you'd be."

"I'm eight."

"I was bigger than you at eight."

"That's not something to brag about."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius." 

They both speak so politely, despite their jabs at one another.

Atli stares at him, face neutral, and he stares back, his eyes intense, but his face also guarded. 

"How old are you?" Atli asks. 

"I'm twelve."

"Can you fight?" 

"Not the way you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?"

"That I don't look like I'm physically fit. But that's not the only way to win a fight."

They blink at him. 

"It's the only way that matters." 

* * *

They hate him, and they're pretty sure he hates them too. 

But they have no choice in the matter. 

Their parents are close allies and friends, and thus, as their heirs, they must spend time together. 

Alexander likes to read. 

They don't mind it, but they would rather be outside. 

Alexander likes to study and play with his chemistry set in the lab.

They like to train in the gym, build up muscle strength, improve their hand-eye coordination, practice with throwing daggers, learn various choke holds and debilitating blows. 

When they study together, Atli is bored, tired of reading about physics and machinery and chemical warfare. 

When they train together, Alexander gets tired of being knocked down so easily. 

Hates going outside with them. 

One day, they are outside, having  left to escape Alexander, who was scribbling so loudly into his notebook that they feel as though they will lose their mind if they have to listen to him even a second longer. 

They sullenly plod towards the forest, wanting to climb a tree and perhaps take a nap. 

But as they walk through the undergrowth, their sensitive ears pick up the sound of something struggling to breathe. 

They look around. 

They don't see anyone or anything at first, but once they close their eyes and focus, they pinpoint the sound.

They bend down.

A mangy cat is caught in a fox snare, its paws twitching, jaw snapping in desperation, the wire winding tighter and tighter around its throat. 

It is a disgusting looking thing, derelict and clearly uncared for, unloved and desperate to cling to what must be an empty life. 

They watch it, feeling something between disgust and pity. 

 They are still watching it when Alexander walks up behind them. 

They watch without judgment as he kneels beside it. 

And snaps its neck swiftly, easily. 

They jump, in spite of themselves, rather unnerved by his expression. 

"It was suffering," he says. 

They stare at him, bottom lip trembling, feeling a little woozy as they see the cat's limp body out of the corner of their eye. 

"What? Never seen death before?"

They had not. 

"It's not so bad, once you get used to it."

"...Have you ever killed a person?"

"No." 

"Do you want to?" 

He looks at them rather oddly.

"Do you?"

They haven't ever thought of it before. 

* * *

_Maverick is stronger than they are._

_Lucas is faster._

_Their fathers are proud of their prowess._

_They are older, but still young enough for their success as the heirs of their clans to be quite formidable, known by many._

_Their father sometimes claps the boys on the shoulders, joking heartily with them, offering them business favors, affectionately ruffling their hair._

_Sometimes they wonder if he does it to hurt them._

_But most likely, they are simply not worthy of their father's best side._

* * *

"You're punching too hard-"

"Not hard enough."

"You'll hurt your wrists."

"So?"

"So you'll be weaker."

"I'll be weaker if I don't punch harder." 

"Who cares what  your father thinks? He's weak, they all are." 

"He is not weak!" 

"Why defend him? He wouldn't defend you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what it is?" 

"There's no point if I can't get better. None at all." 

* * *

 

They decide their clan name will be Hound. 

"I think it's adequate," Alexander says. 

He is seventeen and on his third year of college. 

He has grown into his broad frame, but his face is still somewhat skull like, his forehead wide, his cheeks round, his expression usually unapproachable and foreboding. 

Hound glares sullenly at him.

"Have you developed a sense of humor from your undergraduate studies?" 

"What is wrong with it? It has a certain earthy quality to it. Resonates in the gut."

"It is an insult. My father's way of reminding my entire family that I am nothing more than a common street cur, masquerading as an heir." 

"I think it's fine," Alexander insists.

Hound would be offended by his disagreement if they didn't know him well enough by now to know that he only bothers to argue as a sign of caring. 

"How did it feel turning thirteen?" 

"Most heirs would be assassinating their first target at this age. My father has forbade it, claiming that I am not ready, and cannot join their world. I am to be...the business figurehead." 

"So you'll be free to spend your time however you please, surrounded by money," Alexander says. "Such a tragedy." 

"His disappointment is immeasurable. He will always view me as weak, dependent, and expendable." 

"So? What does his opinion matter?"

"He is my father."

"Fathers are the useless ones," Alexander murmurs. "No one needs their father, if you ask me."

"I did not." 

* * *

 

Alexander is twenty and he is staring rather hostilely at Lucas, who winks at Hound. 

"Are you looking for a suitor?" he asks grumpily. 

"No. But my father is." 

"A political arrangement?"

"What else matters?" 

"I thought you despised Lucas."

"I do."

Alexander looks a little less miffed. 

"He would make a horrible husband."

"I agree. But political alignments are more effective than match.com, you know?" 

* * *

Alexander wishes he could say he is not enjoying himself, but he is.

Hound drives like a demon, pushing the wheels and engine so hard both seem like they're going to rattle to pieces. 

And although it is dangerous, and ridiculous to risk their lives like this, he is exhilarated anyway.

Because Hound has that look in their eyes.

That desperate, yet joyous look of a person who is bound in a life they do not want finding just a tiny spark of true happiness. 

"Are you scared of dying?!" Hound yells over the roar of the wind.

"No!" 

He's lying.

But the fear doesn't repel him.

It attracts him like a moth to flame, and he grabs Hound's shoulder tight and doesn't let it go. 

* * *

"I killed him." 

"Did you really?" 

"He was drunk. He grabbed at me, said I was his, and we might as well not wait."

"Ah."

"I reacted rashly but...I would do it again in a heartbeat." 

"I would applaud you. The world benefits from his absence." 

"I'm going to hide the body. Will you help?"

"I thought you'd never ask." 

* * *

_"Do you think I'm ugly and strange?" Alexander asks._

_"Yes."_

_"Is that why you do not like me?"_

_"No."_

_"So why don't you like me?"_

_"Because I find you...disturbing."_

_"How so?"_

_Atli leans against a tree._

_Alexander stands, notebook in hand, staring into a small river._

_They're "playing" in the woods behind Atli's manor, the only approved place outside of the house that they have._

_"Your view of death is unappealing."_

_"It is merely the height of existence, the final act of decay."_

_"It is the cessation of existence, not the height."_

_"Energy does not disappear. It merely transforms."_

_"As humans, we only need understand human life, that is our duty."_

_"That is narrow thinking."_

_Atli huffs._

_"You're human, unless you forgot."_

_"I did not ask to be."_

_"Too bad."_

* * *

"What would you say if I asked you to kiss me?" Bloodhound asks. 

They have just turned eighteen. 

Alexander is twenty two, and already busy with several research grants and projects. 

"I would ask you if your family's funding of my research depends on it."

"Amusing."

They lie on their back on his office couch, staring out his office window. 

Every time they come to see him, his employees' eyes go wide upon seeing them, their faces shocked to see a legend walking among them. 

They had rocked the underground world when they had killed a major politician about to take office and begin serious work into investigating their hidden networks. 

They had earned even more awe and respect when a major peace treaty between families had soured, and they had slit the throat of their family's rival head of the family, killing half a dozen special ops body guards and three well known top hitmen, a feat which had been thought to be impossible. 

After that, no one called them Hound anymore.

It was wiser to call them Bloodhound.

And they had risen to the title swimmingly. 

But right now, they sound like a typical eighteen year old, and Alexander is rather annoyed, and maybe a little uneasy, about it. 

"Why do you ask? You are above such things, are you not?" Alexander asks. 

"If _you_ are, then I suppose I won't ask again." 

"It would be better if you did not."

But his stomach lurches, just a little, at the thought of Hound asking someone else. 

* * *

_"I hate my father."_

_"He is rather dull."_

_"I hate you."_

_"Acceptable prognosis."_

_"I don't really hate you."_

_"Why not? We're nothing alike."_

_"I just hate that you're the only friend I have. The only friend I'm allowed to have."_

_"Anyone would hate that."_

_"I hate this family and this world, Alex."_

_"We were born in it. We couldn't escape it if we tried."_

* * *

Bloodhound's father dies, and they dramatically renounce his name at his funeral. 

Alexander wishes he could've been there to see it, but he had been defending his doctoral thesis at the time.

He settles for hearing it from Bloodhound, who is giddy, almost wild with frenetic energy, bouncing all over his condo.

"I've waited so long to say it," they say, almost dreamily. "Mother was outraged. My cousins were cursing my name. My uncles and aunts were waving their fists. I hope they come after me."

"Why?"

"Because I'd kill every single one of them, and enjoy it," they say without skipping a beat. "Because I have been afraid of them my entire life, their disapproval, their disappointment, their anger, born the brunt of their misfortunes and woes. And now I am strong enough. Now I am the last blood heir of my family, and I do not need them. They need me. And they will not have me." 

Alexander shivers at the coarseness of their voice. 

The power that accompanies the smooth roll of their words.

They have become taller, less awkward, their limbs no longer long and unwieldy, but lithe, graceful, muscular. 

He has never been interested in anyone, male or female, before, but he finds himself rather distracted by Bloodhound's funeral shirt, which is carelessly and casually unbuttoned. 

But he has gone twenty five years of his life without having such feelings, and he can't deal with them now. 

He forces himself to look away, and Bloodhound continues to talk about their dreams and hopes for the future, while he dare not voice his aloud. 

* * *

_"Have you ever kissed anyone?"_

_"No."_

_"Why not?"_

_"I find human mating rituals quite tiresome and pointless."_

_"Why is that?"_

_"I wish to be recognized for my achievements, not be tied down to the petty obligations of married life. And I will leave my own mark on this world. To reproduce is to simply do what is natural. It requires no critical thinking, no hard work, no particular skillset. If my name is to live on, it will live on in how I have affected the lives of others, not in my children, or their children."_

_"That's so edgy."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"I don't know, I read it on the internet."_

* * *

They are drunk. 

He has never seen them so discombobulated, so unhinged, rambling about the eyes of those they had killed, how they drink in their fear like a tonic.

"I am a bad person," they say.

"I cannot disagree."

"So why do yoush- hang out with me?"

"Because I don't care." 

"Thash...kind of you."

They giggle. 

He leans away from them, but they lurch onto him, breathing onto his mouth, the stink of alcohol on their breath nauseating him. 

"Do you want to kiss me now, Alexander?"

"No."

"Good. Because I could do much better than you."

"You could." 

"..." 

"... it's the anniversary of your mother's death."

"She went to her grave cursing my name, claiming I dishonored the family, and ruined its reputation."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"I went out, bought five bottles of vodka, and celebrated." 

* * *

Bloodhound used to stay at his place all the time.

Now they come very sparingly, only dropping by for a nap or two, sometimes catching up with him over tea.

It had been eight months since he'd last seen them when they stumble in one night, face covered in their own blood, thigh nicked by bullets. 

For a hard day and a half, he is awake, tending to their injuries, forcing water down their throat, changing their clothes, washing the blood off of their skin. 

Only once they have stabilized, and are resting peacefully, does he realize that he has cut off the majority of their clothing to take care of their injuries. 

He throws a blanket over them, and goes to sleep. 

And dreams of Bloodhound, naked and swimming in the pool of the building's penthouse, looking serene as they stare up at a light blue sky, dotted with white clouds. 

He wakes up sweating, with a problem he hasn't had since he was a teenage boy. 

When Bloodhound wakes up, groggy and weak, he is ashamed of himself, a feeling he is not used to either. Nothing he does has ever made him feel as guilty as he does now, and he has murdered people before.

Yet somehow, Bloodhound is not like the others, and he has always known that, but never acknowledged why. 

He expects that once Bloodhound is awake, things will go back to normal.

But Bloodhound, unashamed of their nudity, drops the blanket he had thrown over them, and walks around his apartment, bare as the day they were born, looking tired and beat up. 

And although he flushes initially, upon looking more closely at their torn and bruised flesh, Alexander realizes that he cares more about Bloodhound's wellbeing than his own frightening new feelings. 

And just like that, it is no longer awkward for him. 

And his dreams are relatively Bloodhound-free. 

* * *

Over the years, he and Bloodhound come to the understanding that their relationship, although  odd, is more powerful than either had previously expected.

Bloodhound had seen Alexander as someone they were forced to spend time with, an assigned and approved playmate that their father could control. 

Alexander had seen Bloodhound as just another heir to a bloated and egotistical throne, built on the bones of treachery and deceit.

Yet, they still come to one another, year after year, bemoaning their fates. 

Bloodhound comes to Alexander the night they are made the figurehead of their family, their father's nephew the true "brains" of the operation, claiming that they are happy for him, but should he become too power hungry, they will take him out.

And Alexander calls him on the phone when he is arrested for illegal experimentation on unwilling human subjects. 

When they bail him out, they do not ask him what he did, only that he not get caught next time. 

They take him for a joy ride, and break the speed limit, and he lets out a roar of laughter, the likes of which neither of them have ever heard come out of his mouth before. 

Somewhere, underneath the bored and mundane adult, is the teenager he remembered being with Bloodhound. 

And he craves that feeling more often. 

Needs it. 

"Blood- Atli."

"Yes, Alex?"

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"Yes. Many times." 

"What's it like?" 

"Do you want me to show you?" 

He nods. 

But they smile a terrible smile at him.

"You didn't think it would really be that easy, did you?"

* * *

They are terrible, so terrible. 

They make him take them out to dinner, to the movies, on a walk in the park, to a concert, to a bar, to drink, to boulevards full of pretentious art galleries. 

They make him hold their hand in public and put up with their hand around his  neck.

Grin mockingly at him when he tries to wiggle away. 

They are punishing him, embarrassing him to make up for the times he had rejected them. 

At the end of one of their "dates," Bloodhound leaning across his lap in the park in broad daylight, their head cushioned by his legs, he snaps. 

"What is the point of all of this?" he hisses. "Are you torturing me? Taunting me? Simply reject me and let us move on from this silly debacle!" 

Bloodhound sits up, and he thinks finally.

Now they will tell him they have been stringing him along.

They have been teasing him, because they had asked before, but had done so frivolously, childishly, as someone who was forced to be his friend, and was never a true friend. 

Wildly, irrationally almost, he wonders if now they will reject him altogether, tell him to get lost, that they only wanted him as a friend, and nothing more. And if he couldn't stand only ever being friends, then there's the door. 

But Bloodhound merely looks at him with sad eyes. 

"I'm making up for lost time," they say. "I just wanted to pretend we were a couple like all of those other people. Do you see them? Holding hands? Taking photos of themselves? Smiling and laughing and going places with another? With families that love them, friends from work, from school, from their hobbies, their pointless but joyous little hobbies? I wanted to be like them, if only for pretend. I wanted to make believe, just the way I always wanted to as a kid, but never could because I never got to be a kid." 

He blinks at them, suddenly feel paralyzed, afraid, nervous, not sure what to say.

"You and I were born into the places we occupy now," Bloodhound says. "Our families decided our paths long ago. But even though you and I were supposed to be friends, were mandated to be friends, I began to see you as someone as trapped as me. And I know that you're not so trapped. The bars of your cage are gilded with gold, and you know the right song. But I've always felt the longing for freedom. So I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was torturing you." 

They stand up, as though to leave.

He grabs them by the wrist before they can.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" he demands.

"No." 

"Why not?"

"Because I've known you for a long time, and yet I feel like I hardly know you."

"How can I fix that?"

"Keep going out with me. Let's pretend we just met. Let's pretend that we met by chance, and we decided, like normal people, to be friends. And like normal people, it evolved into something else. And then, like normal people, we decided to go on dates. And then, we just...see what happens. How does that sound?" Bloodhound asks. 

Alexander lets go of their wrist.

"It sounds...tedious."

The assassin stares at him, looking rather blank, unimpressed.  

Alexander stares back at them.

Then they laugh. 

"I suppose you're right. Then I suggest a compromise. You and I still know one another. No pretending we don't. But you still have to buy me dinner before you ask me to stay the night?" 

"I agree to those terms." 

"Before you've heard the stipulations?"

"What are the stipulations?" 

Bloodhound's eyes seem so lively under the autumn colors of the leaves soaring over their head. 

"You must remember that neither you, nor I, belong to our families. We are our own people first, and if I choose to kiss you, fuck you, or even kill you, I do it because I want to. Not because I was asked, influenced, or told to do it." 

"I will remember."

"Good." 

* * *

_They met a long time ago, and did not like one another._

_They trained together, studied together, and despised that time they shared, working together for the sake of their families' alliance._

_It was only the moments in between, where they realized they could take control of their own fates, that their friendship was uniquely theirs and theirs alone, that would matter in the years to come._

_Bloodhound and Alexander Nox were forced together at the ages of eight and twelve, but they only really found one another in their twenties, when they could travel the world, buy a home, adopt a dog, live on their own, do everything they had ever dreamed of, back when they thought their freedom would only ever be a dream._

* * *

"Alexander."

"Atli." 

"Why did you think human relationships were pointless?"

"I wanted to be recognized for my genius, not my ability to procreate."

"You won't be procreating with me."

"No."

"So what's the point of this?" 

"Why does there have to be a point? Maybe there is no point." 

"I like that." 

"What?"

"Our relationship will be pointless. In the grand scheme of everything, it's got no point at all." 

"No point at all." 

"But it's fun, isn't it?"

"It is." 

"And we'll live our pointless lives as well as we can, from now on? No more expectations, no more burdens?" 

"I believe you might've been the real genius after all." 

"Oh, you." 

Utterly pointless to hold their hand.

For them to kiss him on the lips, pushing back his hair with their firm fingers. 

But he has lived his life so purposefully before this moment, and so have they. 

He figures he gets to have this one little pointless endeavor.

**Author's Note:**

> God, I'm trash. What even is this? I have no idea.


End file.
